We purchased a new toy for Em. It’s this crazy ball-shooting machine that plays music every time you press its big red button. It’s nuts. To be honest, I’m a little surprised that he even likes this thing. Had we been in a toy store, it probably would have been one of the last items that would have caught my eye as something he’d like to play with. But then we had a play-date at Caroline’s house. She brought out the ball-shooting machine and BLAMO! he was mesmerized.

The following day I told grandma about his adoration for the toy. A week later he had one of his own. Naturally.

Em still very much enjoys the toy. He has it out constantly. And we find it pretty hilarious that he uses one tiny finger (instead of his entire palm) to push the button. Sometimes, it takes him several tries to get that thing to sing and pop but he manages.

What we weren’t aware of was how fascinated Murray would be by the toy. Almost every time Em pushes the button, Murray runs out to watch. In fact, I think the only time he’s uninterested is if he’s sleeping or eating—his two absolute favorite pastimes.

Even though Em has decided that trying to insert anything and everything into the opening is much more fun than using the balls it came with, Murray tries hard to play along. My guess is that Murray is thinking, “BALL-SHOOT! YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG!”

We’ve had to pull out a coat hanger three times now to remove items Em has crammed into the opening.

In other news, we’ve had quite the crazy morning here. You see, during our walk this morning, we found a lost cockatiel. He’s currently in our bathroom scared half to death and wondering where his mama is. We are trying to figure out how to contact said person by calling every local vet and shelter. I have my work cut out for me today.

We’ve named him Newman temporarily.

How does Murray feel about Newman? Hilarity ensued outside the bathroom door. Commando Kitty all around. And every time Newman squawks or tweets, Murray’s all, “WUZZAT?! IMA GIT THAT BIRD!” Tucker was just curious and then stopped caring immediately. Pookum didn’t care at all.

I get the feeling Newman would win in a fight against any of our absurdly passive cats.

But we’re not taking any chances.

I have about a dozen half-written posts to push live. I never seem to find the time to finish them, however. I only now just realized they are stories about Em and our day-to-day lives and they usually end in a question. So, because I’m not sure I’ll ever get around to making them public given my day’s seem to be getting shorter and shorter, I figured it might be worth a shot to just list them here and see if folks want to talk/discuss/commiserate, whatever.

Feel free to answer or discuss any of the questions below. I’m not necessarily asking for me solely, but I think that other parents who read this site may benefit from it as well.

1). How long does it take for your little guy to eat? (I’m talking finger-food eaters, young enough for a highchair.) Is there a record where this is concerned?

2). Do you give him or her dessert? How often?

3). At what age did you introduce McDonald’s? If you haven’t, do you ever plan to? (This is something I’ve been curious about. I wonder how kids discover it. We don’t eat McDonald’s in this house unless we’re pregnant and we see a commercial featuring a breakfast sandwich and our husbands are out of town.)

4). Do you plan on teaching your child about sex at an early age? I hear that many people are suggesting it begin as young as pre-school. (I am all for teaching Em about sex at a young age so he doesn’t ever potentially suffer at the hands of an adult. I am unsure of how to go about doing so. Although, TJ seems to have a secure grasp on how do to this. So I will most likely learn from him.)

5). What snacks do you give your child? (We have done pretzels, goldfish, Mum-Mums, Graduates’ Stars, Cheerios, String Cheese, and grapes and other fruits but we’re always looking for more ideas.)

6). What sources of protein do you give your little one?

7). If you’re not a religious person, and your son or daughter one day says, “What (or who’s) God?” What will you say?

8). Do you watch TV around your child? Do you let him or her watch TV? (We do. My kid loves BoohBah as freaky as that show is. He also loves Sesame Street as do I.)

It’s a free for all today, my friends. Ask whatever you want. Answer what you will. And as always thanks for stopping by!

Joseph Petcka, the man arrested for beating a 7-pound cat to death, had his day in court recently. The jury came back hung: 11 to 1. After five days of deliberations eleven people were in favor of convicting Petcka of aggravated animal cruelty. A lone juror by the name of Francisco DeFlaviis did not believe that Joseph Petcka killed the cat on purpose.

Joseph Petcka weighed 205 pounds at the time. He and his girlfriend had just had a fight. The cat, Norman, weighed 7 pounds. Norman was declawed.

Petcka said he kicked the cat to death in self defense.

I could go on about how I feel regarding animal cruelty in this country. I could go on about how unbelievably angry his actions and this mistrial makes me. But I won’t. Instead of stating the obvious, instead of ranting without resolve, I’m hoping that something positive might come out of this.

Please don’t forget to donate to the ASPCA. Help them put an end to animal cruelty. Help them spread the word that beating an animal to death will not be tolerated in this country.

I left for the Jersey shore on Tuesday morning to visit my parents and relax a bit. I also wanted to give TobyJoe some “time off”. That doesn’t mean he’s not still working—he’s very much at work and working—it means he gets to sleep all night long and wake up later than 6 AM (which is when I leave for the gym in the morning).

Incidentally, my stay here has a LOT to do with how I was able to completely space on what day of the week it was. I want to apologize to all of you who waited to read about Murray. I will make it up to you (and him). I gotta say, however, I am constantly heart warmed by the number of people who like Murray and look forward to seeing him. It always makes me happy whenever I get an email demanding to know where Murray is. (You have no idea how happy.)

So. Thank you for your email. Thank you for the comments. Thank you all for thinking of Murray.

Alas, what have I done while visiting South Jersey? I ran. I shopped. I ate fatty, caloric food. I sat around. I wrote. I took Em to the beach for the first time. We took him to Long Beach Island—a place I used to hang out as a kid. We vacationed there every summer. I also grew up deep sea fishing right off the island with my father. I have been doing that since I was knee high to a grasshopper. I used to ask him if there were skulls “down there” or big whales. I used to ask if there were treasures (not of the pharmaceutical waste variety either). I used to ask about dolphins. We used to catch flounder and blue fish. I grew up on that beach, more or less.

And so we thought it’d be nice to show that beach and its elephant ears to my son. We dressed him in a pumpkin shirt and took him to the sand. He loved it.

I was a little surprised that he’s so fearless. You see, there’s a storm brewing off the Atlantic (the same one making its way into Brooklyn on Friday and Saturday) and it’s causing some pretty rough seas off the coast. He loved it anyway—the wind, the sand in his face, the cold—he loved it all.

I love the fall. Right now, I’m wearing a wool sweater my mom bought for me. I’m sipping an ale and my belly is full of pasta. My feet are propped up. I’m reclined.

And my toes are stooping toward October.

Happy second day of Fall, my friends.

To humanever it may concern,

I regret to inform you that my friend, feeder, and feline keeper forgot it was Tuesday. She didn’t forget about me—she will never forget about me. I won’t let her. I drool on her, stand on her fat rolls, and steal her food.

She has promised me that she will write about how awesome I am next week.

Sincerely yours,

Murray

P.S. Also, I want you all to take notice of the fact that not every cat on the Internet writes like a retard. I has good pawmanship.

Check this out. That’s my boy, my sweet, gentle boy.

After the week we’ve had here in America, I think the flier I saw last week may need to be updated.

Suicide isn’t the answer at all. The United States government is.

I have ranted about this to the people I know. I have gone on tangents inside my own head for weeks now. And I know that I’m going to come off as someone who is resentful and jealous. I’m going to sound bitter and scornful.

And perhaps I am all of that. Truth be told, I feel very much the same way about the financial stuff going on right now that I do whenever I see people using the shoulder to cheat a traffic jam thereby making it worse. I feel the same type of anger and unfairness I experience whenever I see someone doing 55 in a 25 with total disregard for everyone else.

I’m frustrated by all those who took out mortgages they couldn’t afford from even greedier banks.

There have been moments recently I have wished we had done something entirely stupid and accepted a mortgage we couldn’t afford. Everyone else was doing it, right? What’s another foreclosure? What’s another declaration of bankruptcy? Why not gamble with our financial stability like so many others have? Why not sit back and hope that it works out?

Why not?

Because we’re cautious. Perhaps we’re a little too cautious because now that so many American banks are in financial tailspins hoping our government throws them a parachute, there’s a pretty good chance we won’t be getting a mortgage anytime soon.

And that’s my question to no one. Are we, as first-time home buyers, going to be penalized because we played things by the book? Are we going to be overlooked now because we weren’t seduced by a high-paying, or sub-prime mortgage back then?

To all those who want less government intervention, less regulation, less bureaucracy: look around you. This is a perfect example as to why your ideal world is an impossibility. When choosing between a high-risk gamble and being conservative many people opt for the former. Just watch one episode of “Deal or No Deal” and you’ll see how greedy and stupid people can be. We need intervention. We need help.

We don’t even have enough personal restraint to get our chubby hands out of the deep fryer, and we get pissed off whenever the government suggests adding calorie count to a menu. (Whatever happened to making informed decisions?) Due to the rising cost of cigarettes, some smokers are now demanding that government pay for their nicotine patches, gum, whatever. (Why should I have to pay for someone else to quit smoking? No one helped me quit.) People were told to leave Galveston, Texas a week before Ike hit. Many chose not to. Two days later, they were begging for help on camera.

We are children in need of adult supervision. We lack the willpower to say no. We need a guardian to step in and make sure we’re don’t kill ourselves, financially or otherwise.

So, I’m going to be honest today. I am a little resentful. I am a little frustrated. I am shaking my head at all those who stepped outside their means, and at the banks for allowing them to do so. And even though I agree with what many are saying—that government intervention is needed right now so that our teetering financial stability doesn’t come crashing down—I can’t help but want to wag my finger at the government as well. Where were you when the banks were giving money to people who couldn’t pay it back? Where were you when people were buying houses they couldn’t afford?

I’m actually one for government regulation. I like knowing how many calories are in my banana nut muffin. And I don’t mind paying taxes to make sure that people are able to eat, get the healthcare they need—whatever. I have always felt that as a society we’re only as good as our weakest member. We need to look out for one another.

But I’d be lying if I said that this member of society isn’t angry.

We’re attending our second music class today. The first one was last Thursday and fifteen minutes into it, I vowed never to return. It wasn’t nearly as bad as mama and baby yoga, but it would have made for an excellent soundtrack.

Whomever decided that a 13-month-old could sit calmly in a room surrounded by expensive guitars, keyboards and things that go bang, spent too much time with the bong while everyone else was singing Kumbaya. My kid wasn’t about to just be with the instruments. He wanted to touch, strum and destroy the instruments.

And then whomever decided that holding a music class for toddlers at a boutique that sells toys, lactating boob paraphernalia, and stuffed animals was an even crazier individual. It was like taking a cat to the can-opener testing facility. You know, if there were such a place.

But we tried. And I think Em had a good time. Truthfully, I’m not absolutely certain because I couldn’t hear much with the screaming and all. I spent the better half of the class chasing him around making sure he didn’t smash the instructor’s guitar, or walk on his expensive keyboard. Our only contribution to the chorus, was whenever Em let out one of his famous, high-pitched screams because mean ol’ mama wouldn’t let him near the important instruments. He threw his head and arched his back in an Oscar-worthy performance as I apologized to everyone around us. “I’m sorry. I know you paid for this. He’s The Destroyer.”

And then at one point, in an admirable attempt to organize, the instructor suggested that we collect our toddlers onto our laps and form a circle around him. Oh, sweet naivety. I was that way once. The suggestion actually made me laugh out loud. It bubbled up and burped itself to the surface without warning.

“You’re joking, right?” I said. “Because that’s definitely not going to happen with Emory.”

Obviously he doesn’t spend much time with 1-year-olds.

When I wasn’t making sure Emory didn’t destroy an expensive instrument or stomp on another child trying to do so, I spent my time making sure he wasn’t pulling everything from the shelves.

Whose idea was it to attend a music class offered at a children’s store where touching and destroying the musical instruments isn’t an option? And then whose idea is it to go back again?

Too bad Xanax makes me drool.

EDITED TO ADD Ok, so round two went much better. We are going to go back for a third time. I think it could work. But I do feel bad for the guy leading the show. I think it’s a difficult age group for such a class. Older? Sure. Younger? Definitely. But 1-year and then some? Tough! But it’s kind of fun and the instructor is a champ in the patience department.

I threw together this video of Murray today. It may seem a little boring, but I think it does a pretty good job at showing people what it’s like having him as a roommate.

(P.S. Forgive me for the sporadic updates as of late. There’s a lot going on right now. I will tell all in time but for now things are just too nuts.)

Forgive me for the horrible quality of this video. I don’t have the fancy equipment needed to do this. Plus, our TV died last week, so we’re using the 70-dollar tube we purchased from a Radio Shack in San Francisco. But it’s clear enough that I think you’ll get the point.

The United States woke up with a wicked financial hangover today. But I’m happy to see that at least these two guys are enjoying themselves. The nipple slurping is particularly unsettling.

The year was 1998. I was living in Washington, D.C. in a small, one bedroom apartment on 16th Street. I had just broken up with my boyfriend of 2 years. In less than 24 hours, our apartment was nearly emptied. I was living alone for the first time in my life.

Missy and I decided to go away for the weekend and visit our alma matter in order to spend some valuable time reminiscing with people around a keg. It was during that trip, I decided that to buy a massive, 2-ton television set.

I met Toshiba at Sears.

The TV weighed a lot. So the strong men working for Sears helped us get it into the back of the car. I never once thought about how Missy and I would get it into my apartment back in D.C. The building had an elevator, but how would we get it to the elevator? And then how would we get it to my door? And then how would we get it onto the TV stand? These were not questions I thought about until much later when we pulled up to my apartment building.

“How are the two of us going to get this out of the car and into your building?” Missy asked.

“Great question.” I said. “Maybe we can do it?”

Missy looked skeptical.

But we managed. Somehow we got it out of the car. I have no idea how. After that we rolled the box from door-to-door hoping the styrofoam casing would protect it. We rolled it onto the elevator, down the hallway on the 4th floor, and then rolled it right through the front door. And with every last bit of our strength, we hoisted it onto the pedestal.

All I had to do was never, ever leave.

In 1999 I began dating a guy whom I had been friends with for well over a year. And while our friendship may have lasted indefinitely; our romantic relationship ignited, sparked, exploded, smoldered and then fell to the ground in a heap of black ash in less than 5 months. Our main goal at that time was entrusting ourselves with the task of not trusting one another. That was imperative, and a relationship destined for failure.

But he did have the same TV and used to joke that the only reason I got mine was to one-up him because mine was like an inch larger. TV Envy, is what he called it.

We broke up. And it was tumultuous. It was harrowing. And I decided one night for no reason whatsoever that I was going to move to New York City.

Just like that.

A day before I was scheduled to move, I asked a friend of mine—a very strong friend of mine—if he’d help. I told him I’d buy him dinner, drinks, and give him a place to stay. I’d even pay for his train ticket to get back to D.C. He agreed.

Getting the TV into the truck at the DC end wasn’t difficult for him at all. He simply had to lift it up once, move it to the cart we had borrowed from U-Haul, and then lift it onto the truck. I helped. But barely.

I hadn’t thought to tell him about having to get it up the three flights of stair once we got to Brooklyn.

When we pulled onto my new street, it was already after 8 PM. And it was raining. We hustled and moved everything we could upstairs as fast as we could. The rain steadied as we began to wobble. I had hit that point during a move where giving up seems probable. I began leaving boxes and items on the street for passersby.

“How are we going to get the TV up three flights of stairs?” Todd asked me scratching his head.

“Us?” I answered stupidly.

“Are you kidding me?” He looked shocked. And he should have been. I couldn’t even hold the TV set let alone bring it up three flights of stairs.

“Missy and I rolled it into my DC apartment. Maybe we could do that?”

“UP the stairs? Roll it? Are you fucking crazy?”

I stood in the rain and kicked at nothing with my feet. I felt stupid in my new city. What was I thinking? Breaking up with him was a great move, but uprooting everything and moving to a new city was not the best way to be alone.

Todd went to the truck and got the TV out onto the sidewalk. The rain fell down onto its plastic casing. I didn’t care.

He lifted the TV up the three steps that led to the front door and stopped. “I can’t do this alone. There’s just no way.” He was out of breath.

We waited on the stoop in front of two propped open doors, which tossed 40 watt foyer light at us as the rain continued to fall. We were to meet friends for dinner in less than an hour. I was starving, cold and damp. I was tired from moving and driving all day. And it was suddenly becoming very clear to me that I had just uprooted my entire life—TV and all—and moved to New York City.

And that’s when I made up my mind. We had to breakup. This was going to be my third break up in 1 year.

“Let’s just leave it here. The fucking thing is too heavy. I hate how heavy it is. I don’t need a TV. I definitely don’t need that TV. I’m going to be too busy here and I can’t afford cable. Just leave it. Let it be somebody else’s problem. I’m sick of it.”

Just as I was getting to the meat of my sermon about how the TV and I weren’t meant to be together and that the TV and I never got along anyway, a 7-foot tall, muscular monster of a man walked up to the stoop.

“Can I help you?” The man said. He was German. “Looks like you could use help some.”

“You sure you want to do that? She’s on the third floor!” Todd answered.

“Not is problem.” He assured us. “It’s rain. Let’s go.”

And just like that, the gentle German giant and a friend named Todd brought the TV and I back together again.

That night we joked about whether or not our German was real.

(It’s been 8 years and I’m still not sure.)

On a day in September of 2001 I witnessed the worst day of my life so far. A month later (to the day) I met the man of my dreams. He and I were inseparable. We watched movies from my love seat. The first movie we ever watched together was “You Can Count On Me”.

We knew each other for three weeks before deciding to move into a loft together. The loft was roughly 4 blocks from that apartment, but it was zoned commercial and was on the fourth floor. There was a freight elevator but the hallways were long (almost a block from door to door).

I hired movers.

Moving day arrived. Three men showed up in a big white truck. One of the men was knee high to a grasshopper, Jamaican and dark as night. He was by no means someone I’d call muscular. The other two were much bigger in size. I worried about the smaller man. I worried about him right up until I watched him carry that TV set on his shoulders by himself down three flights of stair.

“He’s a fucking beast!” Said a taller man.

When we got to the loft, he carried it up into the freight elevator and then down the long hallway and into our loft.

I suggested twice that he be careful, that his back would surely break beneath that TV. He said, “Oh, you seely gurl, muh grandmummy could carry this TeeVee.” And he had a mighty chuckle. As did I.

I have for years wondered what would one day separate the two of us, take that TV down once and for all. After 2001 it moved back to DC and then again to another apartment in DC. In 2004 it was boxed up by movers and loaded into a wooden Door-to-Door Mover’s storage bin. It made it to San Francisco three weeks later unharmed.

Six months later it was loaded into a big wooden container once again and then shipped back to a slightly larger railroad apartment in Brooklyn where it has lived ever since.

My 10-year-old Toshiba died sometime late Sunday night. The last thing it saw was a member of the Colts fumble a football. I was in bed at the time. I heard Tobyjoe mutter a few OHMYGODS! at the TV. He then shut it down for the night. The next morning it projected nothing more than a thin white line.

Tobyjoe beat it a couple of times and it was able spit out one final image before taking its last breath. It projected a weather map of the United States.

Words fail me.

Everything was normal. We turned our backs for a minute and discovered that Murray had changed positions. The props may have been added by two thirty something going on 7 year olds.

P.S. Have I ever mentioned before how much I love this cat? I love all of my cats, but Murray represents something extra special. I think it’s because he’s just so damn happy. What’s not to love?

This is for egirl because of what she responded with on this post. The trucks were there last night with a big ol’ spot in between them. We woke up to this:

I actually left a note on their car letting them know they made our morning. Hopefully they get to it before Hanna does.

There are so many massive cars living on this block. The juxtaposition here astounds me.

Em had his one-year checkup yesterday. We’re a month late. I know. But I wanted to give him time to celebrate having turned one. (If you believe that one, there’s a bridge I’d like to sell you.) I’m not going to lie. It was tough. It was tough because my kid is freakishly strong. I know parents say things like that all the time about their young, but ya gotta believe me. He’s strong.

We got there fifteen minutes early so they could apply some numbing cream to both wrists as well as on the inside of his right elbow. It was then covered in clear plastic which he immediately began trying to rip off. We set him free to play with the plethora of toys they have in the waiting room.

About a half hour later, the doctor called us in. Em was weighed, measured and examined. All was well. We asked our questions. We asked about our giving him milk right before bedtime and we were told to stop that immediately. Milk can rot their teeth in just 3 short months. I hate that we didn’t know that. We gave him a bottle of water yesterday for each nap and at bedtime and it seemed to work out just fine. (Thank goodness.)

Don’t make the same mistake we have.

We also discussed his immunization schedule and the MMR. It’s supposed to begin at one year but can be postponed until 15 months, which we have opted for.

At one point in time, we had discussed separating the vaccine and paying for each one individually and out of pocket if need be. But yesterday our doctor informed us that separating each one is no longer an option. Merck (the only manufacturer of Mumpsvax) has halted production and supplies are running out, which means parents are left with no other choice but to administer the MMR. We’re OK with this. I mentioned a few weeks ago, that we’ve become a lot more relaxed about immunizations. (Research! Research! Research!)

Pediatricians must have a very difficult job right now, convincing parents that the right thing to do is immunize their child. Because before we assured her that we were onboard with everything (more or less, we are still following a modified schedule) she came off as slightly defensive. I imagine they are met with parental roadblocks where vaccines are concerned.

We gave Em his final DTaP yesterday. He’s doing just fine today.

But the blood drawing fiasco? Oh holy hell was it ever brutal. We were given a lollipop, which he’s never had before, and were told to give him it to him whenever she inserted the needle. Well, that didn’t really work out. He did not like being pinned down. We expected that. But this was incredible. It took four of us to hold him down and draw the blood. I know. That sounds absurd. No baby is that strong. And he’s not. One adult could overpower him. The problem is that these little suckers are still fragile, strong or not. So you can’t really put all your force into it. They’re little bones could snap in two. Holding a baby down requires finding that very delicate middle ground, and we were having a great deal of trouble finding that yesterday.

It took her several tries to get the vein. She kept saying, “I can’t believe how strong he is. He’s the strongest baby I think I’ve ever worked with.”

In the meantime, he screamed from the pain. It was the first time I really saw actual hurt in his eyes. I have no idea how the families of truly sick children live through something like that. It must be horrible watching a child experience pain, simply horrible. (Parents with sick children, you are my heroes. I don’t know where you get your strength.)

I did manage to crack up when the doctor went in for a third time and TJ put the lollipop in his mouth said, “Use food to cope.” and “Eat the pain away”

It was a nervous laugh, but a laugh nonetheless and given the circumstances of the situation, we had to lighten it up somehow.

We should find out how much we’ve screwed up his perfect little body in a few days.

Em and Murray have breakfast together quite a bit. Murray begs for food and Em usually sneaks a couple pieces of pancakes, eggs, or waffles to Murray whenever I am not looking. It’s ridiculously cute how these two interact.

Murray steals from Emory as well. But Em doesn’t seem to care. In fact, he cracks up. The problem is, Murray is getting fatter and fatter and Em is remaining fairly thin. So we’re trying to put and end to their dining experience.

I haven’t been organized enough to get a video of Murray in action, but I do have this video I shot recently. In it, you will notice a fairly well behaved Murray (well, aside from the fact that he’s on the table). You will notice the crumbs at his chest. Those crumbs are what’s left of some of Em’s lunch. The funny part about this video is that Em decides that since Murray won’t let him pet him, he retracts the only morsel left. Em’s all like, “OH, you won’t let me pet you? Hold your hand? TAKE THAT!”

And then Murray snubs him and leaves.

Enjoy!

(We had a rough morning. Em had some blood drawn to test lead levels. He also got a shot. More about that later.)